by Tarquin Hall
“Yes, yes, quite all right,” she said a little breathlessly. There was a loud ringing in her right ear and she felt dizzy. “I think I’d better step outside. Some air is required.”
Gathering up her handbag, Mummy made her way out of the restaurant and the hotel.
She found Majnu lying back in his seat fast asleep.
“Wake up, you duffer!” screeched Mummy, banging on the window. “What is this, huh? Dozing off on the job. Think I’m paying you to lie around? You’re supposed to be keeping an eye out and such.”
“For what, madam?”
“Don’t do talkback! Sit up!”
Mummy got into the back of the car and waited.
Forty minutes later, Red Boots and Fat Throat came out of the hotel, shook hands and parted ways. The latter got into a black BMW.
“You follow that car,” instructed Mummy. “And pay attention, na!”
Soon they were heading through Sector 18. But Majnu had grown overly cautious and stayed too far back. When the BMW turned left at a light, he got stuck behind two trucks. By the time the light changed and the trucks had given way, Fat Throat’s car was nowhere in sight.
“Such a simple thing I asked you to do, na! And look what happens! Ritu Auntie is doing better driving than you and she can’t do reverse!” cried Mummy.
Having his driving compared to a woman’s was the worst insult Majnu could imagine and he sulked in silence.
“Now, drive me back to my son’s home,” she instructed. “Tomorrow we’ll pick up the trail. Challo!’”
Thirteen
“Mr. Puri, they’ve taken him!” shouted Mrs. Kasliwal without so much as a hello when the detective answered his phone the next morning. She sounded more irate than panicked. “Fifteen minutes back they came knocking without warning. There was such a scene. Media persons were running around hither and thither, invading our privacy and trampling my dahlias!”
“Please calm yourself, madam, and tell me who it is who is taking who!” said Puri, never at his most patient or sympathetic when dealing with a hysterical or melodramatic woman (and even less so at 7:45 when he was in the middle of shaving).
“My husband, of course! The police arrested him! Never could I have imagined it could happen here! Some upstart police-wallah arresting Chippy like a…a common criminal for the whole world to see.”
“On what charge?” asked the detective. But she was still talking.
“Have these people no respect for privacy, Mr. Puri? I’ve seen animals at the zoo behaving with more dignity!”
Mrs. Kasliwal started berating someone in the room with her. One of the servants, evidently. Puri wondered if it could be Facecream. Then suddenly, she was back.
“How this can happen, Mr. Puri? Is it legal? Surely the police can’t just go around arresting respectable people and casting clouds over family reputations whenever they fancy? There has to be some cause.”
It was true that before the age of 24-hour television news, the police would never have made a show of arresting a man of Kasliwal’s status. But nowadays, high-profile arrests were public spectacles. This was the cops’ idea of PR—to give the impression that they were doing something other than extorting bribes from drivers.
“Madam, please tell me, with what is he charged?” asked Puri again. But Mrs. Kasliwal still wasn’t listening.
“I want to know what you’re going to do about this, Mr. Puri,” she continued, barely pausing for breath. “Thus far, I must say the quality of your service is most unsatisfactory. I can’t see you’re getting anywhere. You came here for a few hours, asked some questions and then did a disappearing act. Have you made any progress at all?”
“Madam, will you please tell me with what your husband’s charged?” said the detective.
Mrs. Kasliwal let out an irritated tut. “Pay attention, Mr. Puri. I told you already. Chippy has been charged with murder. Police are now saying he killed that silly servant girl Mary. But it is all lies. They’re trying to cook the case.”
“Have they a body?” asked Puri calmly.
“They’re saying she and the bashed-up girl in your photograph are one and the same. But it’s not her. I know it.”
“Forgive me, madam, but you were not so certain when I showed it to you before,” said Puri.
Mrs. Kasliwal tutted again. “Most certainly I was!” she said. “I told you categorically it was not Mary. Your memory is faulty. Now, I’m going to ask K. P. Malhotra to represent Chippy. They are old friends and he’s one of the best lawyers in India. He’ll get him off for sure. The charges are all spurious. I’ll talk to him about whether your services are still required. It could be he has his own detective.”
Puri kept the phone up to his ear, saying, “Hello, Hello,” but realized she had hung up and that the dial pad of his mobile was now covered in shaving foam.
The detective hastily finished his ablutions and got dressed.
Had he let his client down, he wondered? Should he have seen this development coming?
Puri searched his conscience and found it clear. It was quite normal for people to lose confidence in his abilities in the middle of an investigation. To be fair, their lack of faith was understandable.
From the Kasliwals’ perspective, Puri appeared to be doing nothing. They hadn’t seen him down on his hands and knees scrutinizing the floors with a magnifying glass. He hadn’t threatened and cajoled the servants as most other private investigators and police detectives would have done. He hadn’t even stuck around in Jaipur.
But Puri’s methodology, suited as it was to the Indian social environment, had always proven infallible. And it could not be rushed. As he often told his young protégés, “You cannot boil an egg in three minutes, no?”
Nonetheless, the situation was urgent. If convicted, Kasliwal would face life imprisonment.
The detective considered an air-dash to Jaipur, but given his fear of flying and the fact that it would gain him at the most an hour, he opted instead for the “highway.”
By eight o’clock, he and Handbrake were on the road again.
Puri sat on the backseat calling his contacts to find out more on the charges brought against his client.
A source inside the Chief Prosecutor’s Office (one of his uncle’s daughter’s husband’s brothers) told him that the arresting police officer was called Rajendra Singh Shekhawat.
Shekhawat was a “topper”—one of the most successful detectives in the state. He was said to be young, bright, ambitious and highly adept at keeping his superiors happy.
“So where did he find the body?” Puri asked his uncle’s daughter’s husband’s brother.
“She was found on the Ajmer Road,” he said.
“Recently?”
“No, no! Long time back. August, I think.”
Puri hung up and called Elizabeth Rani, who had access to the World Wide Web on what she called “whif-ee.” She soon located a transcript of the comments Inspector Shekhawat had made to the press in front of Raj Kasliwal Bhavan minutes after the arrest. He’d claimed that the investigation into Mary’s disappearance had been “of the utmost professionality.” Furthermore, “substantive evidence” had been “unearthed by the use of modern detective methodology.” Ajay Kasliwal was, according to the inspector, “a cold-blooded killer” who had “raped and strangled the maidservant girl until dead.”
When Inspector Shekhawat had been asked by a reporter about the motive for the murder, he’d replied, “Clearly, the accused and the victim were having intercourse of one sort or another—who is to say?—and he was endeavoring to conceal his misdeed.”
Elizabeth Rani also told Puri that the story was running number two (after India’s comeback against the West Indies) on the bulletins of the 24-hour news channels. Evidently all of them had been tipped off about the arrest and dispatched live uplink trucks.
“Sir, the scene was quite chaotic,” said Elizabeth Rani.
“Yes, I can well imagine,” said the detective before hanging up.
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Puri had developed an intense disdain for India’s news media. All that the burgeoning American-style news channels peddled was sensationalism. Standards in journalism had been thrown out the window; a new breed of editors would stop at nothing to attract “eyeballs.”
“The three Cs now dominate the news agenda,” a senior commentator had written last month in a respectable news-magazine. “Crime, cricket and cinema.”
Recently, Puri had been watching one of the most popular channels in the middle of the afternoon and been shocked to see live pictures of a man committing suicide. He had jumped off the top of a building while journalists excitedly commentated below.
Last week, another so-called award-winning news outfit had aired one of their “stings.” They had placed hidden cameras in the office of a university professor and caught him canoodling one of his students.
But nothing caught the headlines in India like murder in a middle-class family.
Such cases—and the “National Crime Region” supplied a goodly number nowadays—became orgies of speculation.
“Trial by media circus” was how the detective referred to it.
Halfway to Jaipur, Puri stopped at a dhaba and ordered sweet chai and a gobi parantha. The TV was tuned to Action News and, just as the detective had feared, their mid-morning bulletin was dominated by what a computer-generated graphic described as the “Maidservant Murder.”
BREAKING NEWS…PINK CITY SHOCKED BY BRUTAL MURDER OF HELP…HIGH COURT LAWYER CHARGED…POLICE SAY VICTIM WAS FIRST RAPED…MOUNTAIN OF EVIDENCE AGAINST ACCUSED ran the ticker tape along the bottom of the screen.
Simultaneously, the channel was running video of what an anchorman described as “chaotic scenes” outside Raj Kasliwal Bhavan during the arrest.
It did indeed look like bedlam—but only because of the scrum of cameramen and reporters who mobbed the accused as he was led from his house. In the middle of the fray, Puri spotted his client being helped into the back of a Jeep. Cameramen surrounded the vehicle, trying to stick their lenses through the windows, but were repelled by the police. Then the Jeep sped away with some of the rabid pack chasing after it on foot.
The report then cut to a close-up of a pretty young lady reporter whose urgent demeanor suggested that the world might be about to end.
“The cops have intimated they’ve got a steel-tight case against High Court lawyer Ajay Kasliwal,” she said in an adolescent, nasal voice. “Earlier today, he was taken from here under police escort to the local cop shop, where he’ll be held until charge sheeting. Arun.”
A suave, urbane young man sitting in a slickly lit studio appeared and in a voice that sounded like an Indian version of an American game-show host said, “Extraordinary developments there in the Pink City, Savitri. Tell us what are the charges against Kasliwal exactly?”
“Well, Arun, the High Court lawyer stands accused of raping and murdering his maidservant Mary. Her body was discovered in a ditch on the Ajmer Road. I understand her face was very badly beaten, so it took some time to identify her.
“Now, sources inside the police department have told me”—for this read Inspector Shekhawat, Puri thought—“that a number of witnesses saw Ajay Kasliwal dump the body in the middle of the night. I’ve also been told that the police have impounded his Tata Sumo and they’ll be carrying out tests on it today. Arun.”
The anchor in the studio, who shared the screen with a little box which replayed the pictures of the arrest on a continuous loop, said, “I take it the police wouldn’t have made such a high-profile arrest if they weren’t pretty sure they’d got their man. What was Ajay Kasliwal’s response to the charges?”
“Kasliwal refused to say anything at all when he was arrested this morning. Not one word left his mouth. I’m told he’ll be held for twenty-four hours while the cops make further inquiries. They’ll be focusing on his relationship with the maidservant Mary. What exactly went on between them? We should have more answers later today. Back to you in the studio, Arun.”
“Thanks Savitri. Savitri Ramanand there reporting live from the scene of the arrest of Jaipur High Court lawyer Ajay Kasliwal. We’ll be bringing you more on the Maidservant Murder throughout the day. In the meantime let us know what you think. Email us at the usual address on the screen. We want to hear from you.
“Next, the latest on Team India’s triumph in the second test. We’ll be back after these messages. Don’t go away.”
Film star Shahrukh Khan then appeared on the screen, endorsing Fair and Handsome, one of the dozen or so different products he was currently advertising, and Puri, who had unconsciously been grinding his molars for the past five minutes, told the waiter to switch off the TV.
Soon, the detective was enjoying his parantha and a fresh bowl of curd.
He was almost finished when his private phone rang. It was Professor Rajesh Kumar at Delhi University calling.
“Hello, sir! Haan-ji, sir! Tell me!” bellowed the detective.
The pleasantries over, Professor Kumar informed Puri that he’d got the test results back on the stones from Mary’s room.
“There’s something most unusual about them,” he said. “Where did they come from?”
“Jaipur, sir,” Puri told him.
“That’s most peculiar,” said the professor. “We found unusually high traces of uranium.”
“Did you say uranium?” asked Puri.
“Yes, Chubby, that is exactly what I said.”
Fourteen
The Jaipur police station where Ajay Kasliwal was being held was depressingly typical. The building was a concrete square, two floors high with steel supports jutting out of the roof in case a third floor was ever required.
Red geraniums spilled onto the well-swept pathway but did little to soften its charmless architecture. Puri wondered how people elsewhere in the world could view police stations as sanctuaries. For Indians, they were lions’ dens.
Seeing a well-fed man in a smart grey safari suit, polished leather shoes and a Sandown cap, the duty officer immediately stood up from his chair, looking as alert as if the prime minister himself was making an impromptu visit.
“How may I be of assistance?” he asked in Hindi with a convivial jiggle of the head.
Puri explained his credentials and his purpose for visiting the station: he wanted to see Ajay Kasliwal.
The duty officer took the detective’s card and explained that he needed to refer the matter to his “senior,” who was in the next room.
A few minutes later the officer in question entered.
“It will be our pleasure to help you in any way. Some cold drink? Some tea?” he asked.
For the sake of diplomacy, Puri sat with the police-wallah for ten minutes, dropping a few names into the conversation and leaving him in no doubt that he was someone with contacts at the pinnacle of power in Delhi. The detective also complimented the officer on the tidy appearance of the station.
“Our Indian police are most cooperative,” he said, in a deliberately loud voice with a grin.
Such flattery always went down well. “Thank you, thank you, so kind of you, sir.” The officer beamed.
A stern-looking woman constable escorted Puri to the cells.
They were at the back of the station, three in total, each twelve-feet square with a squat toilet positioned behind a low concrete wall that offered little privacy. There were no windows and no ventilation of any kind. The stench of sweat, piss and acrid bidi smoke hung heavily in the air. The bars and the doors were antiquated and the clunky locks required six-inch keys, which jingled from the constable’s belt like reindeer bells.
The first cell contained seven prisoners. They were racing captured cockroaches across the floor on a course delineated by empty cigarette boxes. Crouching over the contenders, the prisoners’ voices alternated between cheers of encouragement, howls of disappointment and whoops of victory.
At the back of the second cell, a half-naked sadhu with dreadlocks sat in apparent comfort
on the hard concrete floor, while two old men with long white beards passed the time over a game of cards. Another man with a cadaverous appearance leaned up against the bars, staring through them with a blank, melancholy expression.
Ajay Kasliwal had the last cell to himself. It was devoid of furniture and proper lighting. He was sitting in the semidarkness against the back wall with his face buried in his hands.
When he looked up, Puri was shocked to see how exhausted he appeared. Deep creases had developed along his forehead. Bags the color of storm clouds had gathered beneath his eyes.
“Thank God!” he exclaimed. Standing up, he rushed to the front of the cell and clasped the detective’s hands. “Thank you for coming, Puri-ji! I’m going out of my mind!”
For a moment, it seemed as if the lawyer would break down in tears, but he managed to regain his composure.
“I tell you, I never laid a finger on that poor girl,” he said, his grip still tight. “You do believe me, don’t you, Puri-ji? These charges are bogus. I’m a gentle giant, actually. Ask anyone and they’ll tell you the same. Ajay Kasliwal could not and would not hurt a fly. I’m a Jain, for heaven’s sake! We people don’t like to kill anything, not even insects.”
The lady constable, who had been standing behind Puri, interrupted. “Ten minutes only,” she said coldly and withdrew farther down the corridor.
“Of course I believe you, sir,” said the detective. “One way or other, we’ll get you out of this pickle. You have Vish Puri’s word on that.”
He let go of Kasliwal’s hands and reached into his trouser pockets, taking out a packet of Gold Flake cigarettes.
“These are for you,” he said, passing them through the bars.
Kasliwal thanked him, tore into one of the packets and, with trembling hands and fumbling fingers, put a cigarette to his lips. Puri lit a match and Kasliwal pushed the end of the cigarette into the flame. The detective surveyed his client’s features in the flickering light, searching for clues to his mental state. He was concerned to see that he had developed a tic above his left eye. Such a spasm could be the first indicator of more serious problems to come. The detective had seen other men—confident, successful men like Kasliwal—reduced to blubbering wrecks after being put behind bars.